"The same face, the same fanatical eyes, one thought has seized him, one crazy thought, but who can you prove it to? I see, no one else… Gyarov, such a good man, and he thinks highly of his nephew: obedient, kind, willing to share his last piece… They see what they want to see, they don't see what they don't want to understand. Now he's frying flies and calmly watching their suffering, not just calmly, but with pleasure, and then… Gyarov laughs: 'children always grow up as researchers, studying nature, curious about it'… This is not studying, this is self-education"…
Wazir went to his room but then turned around and quietly asked:
– Why do you kill flies?
– They spread disease; we were taught in school, – Aman-Jalil calmly replied, without anger or irritation.
– Want me to give you a flyswatter? "With one swipe, I'll kill seven."
– I don't want one, what do I need it for? Flies don't interest me; I'm interested in hitting or missing with the rubber band, where I hit: the head, or the wing, or the abdomen. And your flyswatter, I've seen it, slap, and the fly falls whole, like alive.
Wazir left the room. Fiery circles danced before his eyes, and someone's voice drove each word into his head like a nail: "And I saw in the right hand of him that sat on the throne a book written within and on the backside, sealed with seven seals. And I saw a strong angel proclaiming with a loud voice, who is worthy to open the book, and to loose the seals thereof? And no man in heaven, nor in earth, neither under the earth, was able to open the book, neither to look thereon. And I wept much, because no man was found worthy to open and to read the book, neither to look thereon"…
Day after day, Aman-Jalil walked joyfully, but the appointment as chief inquisitor of the region did not come from the capital. Gradually, the joy began to fade, doubts arose that Aman-Jalil didn't want to admit to himself: "Did they pass me over?.. Ahmed can't know about the documents. Then who? Who crossed the line?"
Finally, Ahmed summoned Aman-Jalil. He was silent for a long time, imitating the Great Iosif Besarionis, smoking his favorite "Duchess" cigarettes.
– You'll work as deputy for now… – he began apologetically. – They've decided at the palace that you're still too young to be the chief inquisitor. Besides, the current chief is an old fighter, a comrade of the Leader… Between us, I'll tell you, he's seriously ill, won't last long, a few years at most, he has cancer, you see?
– There are already two deputies for the chief; who will I replace?
– Not in place of anyone… You'll be the third… Directives came from the emir's palace: about liquidation.
– What does that mean?
– All dissenters, all who oppose can be plundered, proceeds go to the state.
– Glorious, eh!
– You will handle this.
– As you say, boss… And if someone resists or complains?
– Those who resist, you can kill them, and those who complain, exile them to the most remote and coldest island of Bibir.
– Understood, sir!
Ahmed fell silent again for a long while, but Aman-Jalil pressed on.
– It's been half a month for Gyaur… Anything yet?
– Sir, I've been waiting for the appointment…
– You only have half a month left.
– Not enough time.
– I can't wait. – Ahmed crushed an unfinished cigarette into a golden ashtray. – Gyaur is obstructing me… And you'll be the chief inquisitor of the region only after the old fighter for justice dies, that's the order I got from the unmatched Iosif Besarionis himself. By the way, he already knows all about you, remembers your father, so consider your appointment assured… I stand by you, but you must be decisive. In two weeks, you must eliminate Gyaur by any means necessary, or he will be arrested. You promised me stellar performance. I want to see it.
Aman-Jalil understood there was no way out.
– It will be done, boss!
Aman-Jalil, after his father was killed, was raised by his uncle. His mother had suffered a stroke, lying motionless, cared for by his grandmother, leaving the boy orphaned, and Uncle Musa took him in. Musa had a son a year younger than Aman-Jalil, Jumshid. Aman-Jalil spent six months with his uncle. He bonded so well with his brother that Jumshid cried, clinging to Aman-Jalil when his recovering mother came to take him home. Since then, they knew everything about each other, or rather, Aman-Jalil knew everything about him.
Now, Jumshid managed the largest trading base in the city after graduating from the Trade Institute. And immediately after Ahmed's reminder about the unfinished task, Aman-Jalil visited his brother at the base.
– How are things, dear?
The brothers embraced. Jumshid took a stack of papers and shook them.
– Everyone is asking for trucks, but where am I supposed to get so many? It's their business, but I have all the headaches, I'm responsible for everything, they won't lift a finger, won't even move, and I'm the one sweating it out.
– Ask Dad for help, – Aman-Jalil advised his brother. – He's the mayor after all, let him assist.
– Do you not know your uncle? His own son comes last: a good salary, an apartment, a personal car. Believe it or not, I still walk everywhere.
– At least you're not under the table, – Aman-Jalil joked.
– Easy for you to joke, it seems. The Inquisition has gathered a bunch of jokers, huh?
– I'll help as a brother; they'll give you trucks. Where do you need them sent?
– To Koralen, first to pick up lemons and oranges, the whole batch is heading to Duitsland, you understand, they must be fresh.
– Prepare the warehouse, tomorrow morning five trucks will arrive at least!
Aman-Jalil chatted with his brother about trivial matters, drank a glass of tea with quince jam, kissed his brother goodbye, and they didn't meet again.
Aman-Jalil called Ahmed.
– Chief, we urgently need trucks!
– We need them, take them! – came the reply.
– We need to get them from Gyaur, please call him. But don't ask for trucks from him; press for urgent execution of the lemon and orange delivery plan to Doichland, he'll understand and give the trucks to his son, the rest is my business.
Ahmed promised to help. The day before, Aman-Jalil learned about an underground opium warehouse, took it with his loyal people, naturally didn't report it to his superiors, and now all his people sat there in ambush. But their strange assignment was to cut oranges in half, carefully remove the contents, send it down their throats, insert a pouch of opium into the peel, seal the halves with dark wax, then wrap each fruit in paper and affix a long label: "Maroka," shorthand for "World Autonomous Republican Vegetable Company"… Meanwhile, the trucks headed to the plantation for citrus cargo for Doichland, which in return supplied machines for cigarette stuffing and sturdy condoms. One of the drivers was Aman-Jalil's man. And the agents sitting in the warehouse were engaged in an unusual occupation, the kind they usually relentlessly hunted down and caught. Now the agents were experiencing firsthand the